


The Habits of my Heart

by neela



Category: Murder Call (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Challenge Response, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gentle Sex, Light Bondage, Oral Sex, Peeping, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:09:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25979509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neela/pseuds/neela
Summary: He remembers the first time quite clearly. There'd been so many signs leading up to it. The arguments cut short. The thick tension. The heated looks. The sparks of energy whenever they strayed close. Put all of that together and force them into an enclosed space no bigger than a closet during a stakeout…and in a way, it'd been inevitable.
Relationships: Tessa Vance/Steve Hayden
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NothingHappensByChance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingHappensByChance/gifts).



> This was written a few years ago in response to a private Murder Call fic challenge. Details of the challenge can be found at the bottom of chapter 1.

**1**

_Oh, the habits of my heart  
_ _I can’t say no  
_ _It’s ripping me apart_  
_You get too close  
_ _You make it hard to let you go_

**“Habits of my Heart”, James Young**

He remembers the first time quite clearly. There'd been so many signs leading up to it. The arguments cut short. The thick tension. The heated looks. The sparks of energy whenever they strayed close. Put all of that together and force them into an enclosed space no bigger than a closet during a stakeout…and in a way, it'd been inevitable.

Still, if anyone had asked him at the time, he wouldn't have guessed the outcome. He wouldn't have guessed that the initial squirming as they tried to squeeze into the small space would cause such a buzz beneath his skin. Wouldn't have guessed that just the hint of her fingers in the vicinity of his groin would embarrass him so thoroughly. Certainly wouldn't have guessed that said fingers actually brushed over his growing erection - whether by accident or design, he still didn't know - causing the both of them to shudder.

She'd stilled so completely at the time that he'd been sure his body had just transgressed a boundary that'd see any hope of reconciliation thrown out the window. For his part, he'd tried to ignore it. Tried to fall back on familiar ground, be the professional, rationalise his reaction as logical under the extraneous circumstances. He certainly hadn't looked her in the eye.

Not even when her fingers had slowly retraced their path until they were free and away from his now painfully obvious erection. Not even when she'd tried to shift her own pelvis away from his, which only made the matter much, much worse. Not least because it pressed her breasts to his chest, reminding him of their existence - soft, fleshy mounds encapsulated in shirts and sweaters that despite their professional appearance left little to his imagination.

He'd tried to hold his breath. He'd tried to breathe through his nose. To calm his heart, his blood. None of it worked. Whatever they did, they were as if glued together, and each agonising second was pulling him further and further away from every ethical code, every moral code, every professional principle in Steve's arsenal.

It'd been both torturous and not when he could finally announce the coast was clear, and they'd extricated themselves from their prison. With just the barest of glances at each other, they'd returned to their stakeout, which from that point on had seemed as doomed to fail as any attempt they made for normalcy. When it did and Thorne sent them home, they'd driven in the same tense silence that'd marked their previous days and weeks together.

The only exception this time, however, was that when he'd parked outside her apartment complex and was prepared to drive straight home for a cold shower, Tessa didn't immediately exit the car. Instead, she'd sat as still and on edge as she'd done the entire ride before finally looking at him.

"You want to come up?"

Those words, that tone of voice, haunted him even now. The world had come to a crashing halt, but he'd seen her so clearly that he'd wondered if he'd ever truly seen her at all. It'd been as if all those arguments, all that distance, from the previous weeks were nothing but faded memories. Finally, after all this time, he'd thought he could read her mind. And what a devilish plan it'd seemed to have cooked up… One his rational mind wanted to back off from as far as it could.

And yet… He'd accepted. He'd followed her up to her apartment. Had stood quiet as she turned on just a single lamp next to her couch. Had watched her as she walked into her bedroom and turned around to face him. Had stopped breathing when she, in the light of the nearby aquarium, began to undress. Slowly. Gaze locked with his. Eyes glittering in the low light. Lips parted. Chest heaving slightly.

He could've left. He could've said no. But she'd reeled him into her net as surely as she reeled in their murder suspects, and he'd gone willingly. Hook, line and sinker.

By the time she'd stripped to her underwear, his immobility had snapped. He'd discarded his suit jacket on the couch. He'd loosened his tie and gun belt and left them across a kitchen chair. Had stood shrugging out of his shoes when she'd approached to help. Had shuddered when her fingers - delicate, tentative - had brushed up his chest to where his were working the buttons of his shirt. Had stopped breathing again at the featherlight touch of hot, silky skin upon his knuckles. Had frozen in place as she'd unbuttoned the rest, all the while struggling to reconcile the woman before him with the one he'd worked alongside for three years.

When the heel of her palms trailed close to his groin due to the last button, however, he'd reawakened. He'd grasped her elbows, felt her trembling, and tugged her closer until she'd been as close as during the stakeout. Cotton-covered breasts had pressed tight against his naked chest. Delicate palms had been trapped between them, one directly upon his erection.

She'd stilled completely as she'd done at the stakeout, but unlike then, she'd tipped her chin up so her large, wide eyes met his. And then, slowly, torturously, she'd let her palm grasp him fully. Had rotated her wrist firmly. Had rubbed her thumb up and down his length. He'd been forced to bite back a groan, eyelids almost closing on their own accord. But if anything could've cemented the deal, that'd been it.

Before his rational mind could catch up, Steve had lowered his hands to her soft and silky butt cheeks, had flexed his core muscles, and lifted her sheer off the floor. Long, naked legs had wrapped themselves around his waist, her pelvis had replaced her palm, and her arms had slung themselves around his neck for better leverage.

As he'd walked them both into the bedroom, Tessa's hot and heavy breath had spread across his ear and neck, followed by open-mouthed kisses upon his equally fiery skin. Bursts of energy had kept rising throughout his body in response, each tenser and hotter than its predecessor. Unable to take that torture, he'd pushed her up against the side of her four-foot-tall bed, erection hard against her pubic bone, and pulled his head back just enough to connect his lips to hers in a bruising, fiery kiss.

It hadn't been romantic. It hadn't been gentle. It'd been driven by _need,_ by _lust,_ and thinking back on it, Steve couldn't even remember the details that well. All he could recall was that it'd been exactly the kind of hot, heavy and wet kisses warranted by the situation, and they'd made Tessa squirm against him like there'd been no tomorrow.

From there, things had escalated fast. She'd wrenched the shirt off his shoulders. He'd dry humped her until burning sweat coated both their skins and she began to lose strength in her legs. Then he'd boosted her up until she sat on the edge of the bed, legs around his head instead, and he'd gotten the first taste of her through her knickers. The hitching cries she'd uttered had driven him on, causing him to bury his nose against the apex of her slit, rubbing it while his tongue had trailed the edges of her knickers.

With one hand, he'd reached for his belt and began to shed his trousers, while the other had pushed aside the cotton knickers and revealed blonde tufts of hair around dark, engorged flesh that'd glistened in the low light. He'd felt her shudder then, and plunged into her with his tongue - swirling, curling, lapping - until she was crying out and almost pushing off the mattress. Only when her hands had tugged painfully at his hair, had he let go and straightened to see her spread out limply before him, gasping for breath.

Even now, despite his inner conflict, he couldn't forget _that_ sight. The intoxication it'd brought him. The satisfaction. Nor could he forget the heady, lust-darkened look she'd sent him or the hand she'd held out to him in invitation. Hook, line and sinker - he'd been sucked in as surely as if it'd been quicksand.

As soon as he'd climbed onto the bed too, she'd been on him. Had delved into his mouth. His sweaty skin. His boxers. Before he could really relish the process, they'd both been naked, wrapped together, rolling over each other, fighting for dominance.

She'd won. She'd gotten him onto his back, slipped a condom on, and sunk down on him with a guttural moan he'd echoed. She'd been slick, tight, and utterly unforgiving once she'd set a pace. She'd thrown her head back, mouth open, moans hitching, with only her hands on his chest for support. His had been on her breasts, trying to give them the kind of attention that'd been lacking earlier, and his wide-eyed gaze had tried its best to take in every inch of the woman riding him.

The culmination of pent-up frustration and sexual tension had come fast, frantic, furious. Sweat had glistened upon Tessa's skin, making her hands slip where they'd tried to dig into his chest; making his slip where they'd tried to hold on to her hips. Somehow they'd managed to stick together, though, and what a sweet, explosive relief it'd been…

Now, Steve's not a stranger to sex or the many ways it can come to pass. He's had good sex, bad sex, one-of-a-kind sex, strings-attached, one night stands, friends with benefits, you name it. In the end, what matters is that the sex is good for everyone involved because when it comes down to it, sex can be easy. _Feelings_ , on the other hand, is messy. Thoughts too.

And yet… He hadn't stopped back then. Hadn't stopped since. Wasn't stopping now, no matter how much it hurts. Because when it comes down to it - when it comes to _her_ \- he just can't say no.

Which is why he's still standing here - watching, listening - even when he knows he shouldn't. Even when he knows that, to save himself, he should leave, because this is a torturous sight for more reasons than one. 

Breasts pressed up against the foggy glass. One palm curling at the fingertips, creating wet drag marks down the shower stall. The other between her legs. Eyes closed. Mouth open. Small gasps amidst the water spray. Little hitches as taut nipples graze the slick glass. Faster, growing frantic, up-down, up-down, until she breaks, moans out loud and collapses against the shower stall.

Half of him wants to tear the bathroom door wide open, wrench her into his arms, fuck her hard against the bathroom wall. By now, he knows she’d like it. Knows she could’ve planned for it when she texted him: the clothes discarded on the bedroom floor, the bathroom door ajar, the moans within - an invitation if he’d ever seen one. And he’s already hard. Aching. Trembling.

But the other half won't comply. The other half has him frozen in place. At least until he hears the shower turned off, and he scampers off into the living room where he eventually sits on the edge of the couch with his hands fisted together so he won't do something he's already regretting.

"Steve." Her voice is soft upon exiting the bathroom and finding him in her line of sight. Due to the low lighting, he's not quite sure if her cheeks are flushed due to the shower, her orgasm or _him,_ and upon closer thought, he doesn't really want to know.

He wants to ask why they're doing this, but he doesn't want to know that either, so he just says nothing.

It leaves them at a standstill. Staring at each other from opposite sides of the apartment. And because he can't speak, he knows what'll happen next.

Wordlessly, she turns to the edge of her bed and drops the towel she's wearing. It beckons him, reawakens him, and he sheds his shoes and socks before rising to his feet. With practiced and familiar motions, he removes his clothes until he's standing next to her as naked as she is. She needs only gaze up at him before he's trapping her between him and the side of her bed, lips locked, her legs wrapped around his waist.

And yet while the path is familiar, it's never quite the same. Instead of hoisting her up on the bed, he jerks her sideways and kneels down on the hard floor. Her upper body stretches out before him, but at an angle; her head in contact with the floor, but the rest in suspension up to where she's locked around his waist. Her arms lie sprawled above her head, useless, her core muscles flexed and tense in order to keep her up.

The sight enrages his blood, as always. Whether she's completely under his submission or fighting him or bringing him to heel, his body responds without a care to anything - or anyone - else. Like a dog to a bone.

_Pathetic wretch._

As those thoughts filter through his mind, Steve digs his fingers painfully into Tessa's butt cheeks, shifts her, and then pummels into her wet, tight core to mutual groans of pleasure. Sweet Jesus, she's already clenching him mercilessly, causing him to utter sounds that'd make the nuns blush and then slap the back of his hands repeatedly with a ruler. But he can't stop. Can't say no. Especially not when she's making those sounds too.

Her back arches into a bridge, taut nipples straining into the air, and the hotness of their skins is already causing them to break out in a sweat. When he hears her hitching start, he shifts again, almost drops her fully to the ground, and pulls her legs forward and up to rest together on one shoulder. Tessa's fingernails dig into the floor, her moans changing quality, her abdomen still flexed and tense as if fighting the trembles already wrecking through her body.

He holds her feet in one hand, using the other to rub across the overly sensitive bud amidst her curls, but before he can push her over the edge, she's locking her legs around his neck and forcing him down on top of her. In a by-now practiced move, she's rolled them over and trapped his arms above his head, all the while tearing a bruising kiss from his lips. Instead of the frantic pace she sometimes sets, she rolls her hips slowly, firmly, drawing out the guttural groan from the back of his throat.

Then she's sitting up, reaching out for something on the floor nearby, and he gets a face-full of her soft, fleshy breasts that he can't help but lick and suck and tease as much as she's teasing him. All the while, he can feel her force his hands together and wrap something soft around them, and when she pulls back, they can't follow.

It takes a second for the reality to set in: he's tied up. It takes a much longer second to get over his initial panic and tell himself that this is okay; that he's let her be in control before, and it's been good. But once he forgets reality, he's back in the game. He flexes his core and jerks his hips, reminding her that he might be trapped, but he's not incapacitated. The startled moan she utters is proof of that.

But again, she surprises him. Despite being on the very edge of her control, she moves off him and repositions into the sixty-nine. He's barely able to take in the sensations of her mouth and hands on his dick before the slickness of her slit is thrust into his face. With his hands tied up to her nightstand, he's left with his tongue, and he laps and sucks and thrusts until there's no breath left and they're both shaking with the effort.

The strained "Tess" that escapes his lips makes him simultaneously ashamed and desperate, made worse when replaced by gratitude after she stops and begins to move back on top of him.

' _Pathetic wretch'_ follows in a hollow echo at the back of his mind, but his body won't listen to it anymore. As Tessa's slick, tight warmth slides back onto him, it instead thrums with breathless energy and pounding blood, pushing him so close to the edge that he's surprised he's not already tumbled over it.

But this is what she does to him. This is how she tortures him. And he can't say no. Even if he's left in cold sheets in a cold room afterwards, he can't let her go. She's fermented in his bones; hook, line and sinker.

When they come, it's explosive. It's mind-numbing. It's addictive. He shoots off the ground. She slams down. Over and over until they're both spent, tense, then lax and exhausted.

Their gazes meet afterwards, but it's always brief. Always quiet. It's as if when the deed's done, a different reality takes over. They've both found their release, which they've realised helps take the edge off; helps them function as partners.

What happens next is merely perfunctory. She unties him. They both take a shower - separately. She offers a drink, or food, and he turns it down, saying he should get back home. And the next day, they meet up at work, investigate crimes, solve murders - day after day until one day another text, another look, another sign beckons him to her like the pathetic wretch that he is.

And in the end…he's sure it'll finally rip him apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIC CHALLENGE: Write a Tessa/Steve piece using the song “Habits of my Heart” by James Young as inspiration. 
> 
> Must include the following: 
> 
> > Tessa and Steve in “the act” (can be a memory of something that happened between them, or fragments of memories)
> 
> > A sexually adventurous OOC Tessa
> 
> > A conflicted Steve 
> 
> > Must include one smut scene… don't care where it happens (car, one of their homes, motel, quickie in the fire stairs at work, hell, Thorne's desk is even up for grabs! 😂) but it cannot be related to the first point of TS in the act… totally different scene
> 
> > Plenty of angst is a must!
> 
> > At least one (or both of them) having a “solo” session… ☺️
> 
> > Some “vanilla” bondage… 😏  
> Restrictions:
> 
> > Must be between 750 - 10,000 words
> 
> > This isn't a first time TS got it on fic… so no fluff.
> 
> > (don't hate me, but) no declarations of love… TS are in a pretty messed up relationship here… not abusive or anything, just holding their feelings back and enjoying the others company (and body)
> 
> On a side note, if a sequel or second part to the fic is needed to pick up the glumness and add in the fluff and love and hearts declarations, feel free to write!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two because the end of part one needed it.

**2**

_Water’s getting harder to tread  
_ _With these waves crashing over my head_  
_If I could just see you  
_ _Everything would be alright_

**“Storm”, Lifehouse**

It works until it doesn't. And like every other boiling point they've reached in the past, this one is also violent, earth-shattering and only out of the blue because they've persistently ignored it as a possibility. At the time, though, neither of them cared.

They're in their unmarked car, off-duty, parked in the dead of night in an abandoned lot in a dead-end part of town. The manhunt they'd taken part in had been called off forty minutes ago. It'd been another failure, another tense, cut-off argument. The only surprise was that they'd managed to last long enough to find somewhere private.

Except if they really wanted _private_ , they wouldn't be doing this _here_ at all. Certainly wouldn't be flashing skin in full view of anyone who'd just happen to pass by. Then again, it's skin that drives him crazy like the pathetic wretch that he is. Skin that's slick, burning, devastating - that tears a growl from his uvula when his mouth latches on to a dark, taut nipple and sucks _hard_.

She's so far gone that an added flick of his thumb between her legs makes her cry out at once. Lose her rhythm. Twist his shirt in her fists. Spill wetness all over his dick and half-discarded trousers. Squeeze him hard.

He doesn't let up, though. This time, he's the aggressor. He's got her arms wrenched tightly behind her back - useless, trapped - and is using every core muscle, every pelvic muscle, to slam into her from below until she's jerking everywhere uncontrollably, sobbing with the overload. It's the sounds he's waited for, has killed himself for, and they tug him over the edge until he's locked deep inside her, spilling his fiery, explosive load.

After, there's not a bone left in his body. He slumps back in the passenger seat - blown away, numb, conflicted - and struggles to get air into his lungs again. Doesn't help that Tessa's full weight is collapsed on top of him. Certainly doesn't help that part of him doesn't mind, while another part _does_.

Lips grim, Steve pushes through. Even when she tenses, appear to glance up at him - he doesn't look at her - he pushes through.

Then she's clambering off him and back into the driver's seat, pulling on her discarded knickers, trousers and shoes; rearranging her bra and sweater. It still amazes him how easy she makes it look. Compared to her, he's ten thumbs and fumbling when he slides his trousers all the way up and refastens the fly. She's already dressed by then.

But rather than start the engine more or less right away, she gives him another glance. One he also ignores - because, by now, he knows better than to even imagine he'll know what's going to come out of that mouth.

Then the police radio switches on and neither of them have to imagine anything.

_=All units, Zero 1.=_

Their man's been spotted, is trying to kill someone who's managed to lock themselves in a bathroom just a stone's throw away, and it's such an enraging fact that they're both terse and furious by the time the car tears across the empty parking lot.

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_!" Tessa's cursing beneath her breath, knuckles white upon the steering wheel.

And although he agrees, he's clenching his jaw shut and focusing on putting his bulletproof vest back on because he's a goddamn _cop_ and that's what he's fucking _supposed_ to do - not hang around darkened lots fucking his partner - his _friend_ \- like some pathetic—

The car screeches to a halt before he can finish that thought. Tessa's out in the next breath, and he scrambling after her - cursing, fumbling for his gun - because even if he's strung high on adrenaline and maybe not seeing straight, he's realised that the _goddamn_ woman's so lost in her _goddamn_ sense of duty - and guilt - that she forgot her _vest,_ and she's storming straight for the building their perp's in, gun drawn.

"Tessa!" He yells, but she's too far gone. She's already at the door, ready to breach.

Only a remembrance of protocol seems to have her hesitate, look to him, before gesturing at the grime-covered windows next to the door. "I can see him in the back. He's almost gotten through the door."

Two gunshots cut his reply short. Their heads snap to the building and then there's no question - they need to breach. Tessa's already through the door when he reaches it, yelling out to their perpetrator to drop the gun.

Steve storms in — and gets the shit kicked out of him. It's like an elephant's stomped on his chest. He forgets all other sounds except the one of desperately sucking air into his own choking lungs. Distantly, he realises he's been shot, and when he does, his gaze jerks sideways to where he'd last seen Tessa.

But he can't see her. All he can see is a massive SUV mounted on a service ramp, surrounded by a mess of tools and equipment. And it forces him up off the ground, onto his knees, even if the air's still stuck in his windpipe—

"—under arrest. Anything you say—"

Her voice breaks through the haze. Air sucks into his lungs. Wheezing, gasping, Steve gets up on his feet and stumbles in her direction until he rounds the SUV and sees her. Her hair's wild about her face. Her clothes are rumpled, disarrayed, but he's not entirely sure if they hadn't been so already when she left the car.

What matters is that he can't see blood. Well, not _her_ blood, anyway. Their perp is face-down on the floor beneath her, moaning, with blood seeping out of his shoulder.

Maybe an attempt at suicide-by-cop: shooting Steve, getting shot by Tessa. In that case, he's unlucky. He's still alive. So's the mechanic who'd made the triple-zero call; he's stepping through the remains of a bathroom door on shaky legs, giving Tessa and the perp a wide berth.

"You okay?"

Her question's meant for him, he realises. Her wide, beautiful eyes are staring at him, rimmed with an emotion he hasn't seen in a long, long while: fear.

It terrifies him.

But he can't admit that. Can't show his true colours now, here, like this. So he gasps "yeah", even if that simple word's a struggle in a chest that feels too tight for him now.

Light-headed, he slumps against the SUV on the service ramp, grateful when he hears the familiar sounds of sirens just outside the garage. When cavalry's taken over, he can slide down to the floor and loosen the confines of his vest. It'll be a sweet, sweet relief…

Then familiar, delicate hands brush across his chest, and he looks up to see her lower lip tucked deep between her teeth just inches from his face. Behind her, a uniformed officer is taking their perp away. Another is taking the mechanic's statement. Had he blacked out? He can't remember. He's boneless again - powerless - and can't do anything else but watch her expressions as she tears off the velcro straps and removes his vest.

Somehow, it's the closest he's felt to unravelling her layers in years. As if the fear still glinting in her eyes has accomplished what shedding her clothes - mapping her, sucking her, fucking her - hasn't.

And that's when he realises that this - _them,_ like _this_ \- isn't working anymore.

It brings a wretched smile to his lips.

"What?" she asks.

A nervous smile crosses her lips, reminding him of days past when things had been so much simpler. Days made up of black and white: veteran, rookie; old partner, new partner; man, woman; order, chaos. It's all just a grey mass now, and it's sucking him dry, reeling him in, infuriating him.

But he can't tell her that.

He pretends instead. Pretends he's fine with her giving Thorne the edited version of events leading up to them arriving at the car shop. Pretends he's fine with her giving him a lift to the A&E. Pretends he's fine with her sitting there with him, waiting - like some sort of fucking domestic bliss - before driving him home. Pretends, even, that it'll be all right to go back to their status quo: solving crimes, investigating murders, day after day until that next text, next look, next sign will beckon him to her like the pathetic wretch that he is.

Which is why her actions confuse him. Wordlessly, she shuts the engine off outside his house. Sits staring into the darkness as if waiting for something. An invitation, maybe. Doesn't show any signs of wanting to exit the car, though. Not even when he awkwardly says goodnight and leaves.

She's still there in her car five minutes later. He spots her through the front room window. A darkened face in a darkened car in a darkened street. For all intents and purposes, as lost as a ship at sea.

He knows he shouldn't - knows he's his own worst enemy right now - but he opens the door. Lets a stream of light shine down the patio steps and across the untended front garden. He doesn’t stay to see whether she notices, but instead walks into his kitchen. Gets a beer. Gulps half of it down at once. Grimaces.

When he turns back, she's there. One hand on the door knob as if still uncertain what to do. As if still uncertain of the fact that she has him wrapped around his little finger and there is fuck-all he could do about it.

The display angers him. With a hard crash, the beer bottle's on the kitchen table and he's storming towards her, jerking her fully inside the house, shutting the front door firmly, and then stalking back to drain the last of the beer with his back turned towards her.

As the silence drags on, he begins to pace. Gulps down the dregs of the bottle and places it by the kitchen sink. Leans on his hands upon the edges of the sink. Breathes raggedly, trying to ignore the lingering sensation that he's been rammed in the chest by a wild elephant.

Only when it feels as if he's got any semblance of control does he straighten, spin around, and prepare to get undressed.

But Tessa still hasn't moved. Her gaze is locked upon the ground, her breathing rapid, her arms hanging limply at her sides. It takes the sound of his belt buckle loosening for her to snap out of it. When she does, she stares at him wide-eyed. Lips parted. Cheeks flushed…and covered in tear tracks.

It's enough of a shock that he's frozen in his tracks, his blood cold.

"I can't do this anymore." Her voice is broken. Fragile. Thick with unshed tears. It barely registers on his mind, however. Words have become incomprehensible.

He stares instead.

She looks down. Doesn't meet his gaze. Starts shifting uncomfortably on her feet, biting her lip, sniffling back tears. In all their months together - like this - he's never seen that before. It scares him more than the fear he'd seen in her eyes earlier; stealing his breath away, calling him to action.

“Because of tonight?” He’s thinking of the whole thing: the arguments, the sex in the car, the interference with work, the lies to Thorne.

But he’s also thinking the worst. The unspeakable. Her whispered “No” only halfway confirms it.

“You found someone.” There's a strain in his tone. A potential darkness brewing in his eyes. A potential fire growing in his blood. But offset by sudden panic that's just waiting for a nod. Is _expecting_ a nod. Because this - _them_ \- isn't working. Has never worked. Was probably never supposed to work. And it makes sense that—

“No.” Blue, water-filled eyes find his and his mind crashes once more.

“Then…”

“I—” She stops, hesitates, then: “Will you make love with me?”

He mentally has to shake his head clear.

 _Love_? Had he heard her right? He couldn't have. They'd never talked love. Never given a hint of love. Never given a hint of anything apart from lust, from fuck, from—

Steve blinks his eyes. He's forgotten to breathe, and his chest's aching like a hole's been ripped straight through it.

Tessa still stares at him. Lip tucked between her teeth. Fear in her eyes. Nothing like the confident, sassy, wild woman he's struggled to reconcile with the partner he'd known for years. Instead someone different. Someone he's never seen, but _wanted_ —

Wanted _._

_Love._

As swift as the realisation sweeps over him, Steve's sucking air into his lungs, meeting Tessa's gaze wide-eyed as if only now seeing her for the first time. Takes in those beautiful blue eyes and those soft warm lips. Recalls how he's thought about them for years. Dreamed of them. Not for conquest, but for something more. Something he couldn't have. Something she's—

His feet move as if through water. Slowly. Shakily. Echoing the heavy breaths that drum alongside the pounding heart, the heated blood. All the while, taking her in, holding her gaze, and trying to unravel her. Instead, he’s noticing how she's trembling, how her breaths echo his, how she's half ready to bolt for the door but holding back.

It's almost enough to make him pause. Instead, somehow, it makes him smile. She's got him hooked and she doesn't even seem to know it. Doesn't seem to know that there's nowhere else for him to be. That she could've crossed the country and he'd have followed like the pathetic wretch that he is if she'd asked. Hadn't he already proved that? Hadn't he already time and again opened the door for her? Been beckoned to her?

Part of him is ready to tell her as much when he pulls up in front of her. Then he reaches out to push a lock of hair out of her face in a way he's imagined doing so many times before, and the shock of being able to do so stuns him yet again. Makes his smile fade and his chest ache…until the inaction hurts more than action and he _has_ to lean down. _Has_ to brush her lips with his. _Has_ to linger.

Their kiss isn't frantic. Isn't furious. Isn't driven by something primal. Rather, it's what it should've been that first time. Gentle. Romantic. _Fearless._ A dance for two. A dance for lovers.

Lovers. The word echoes in his mind as his hand finds its way up and into her hair, gently caressing the strands under his fingers. Is that what they’re becoming? What this messed-up chaos is all about? Not just friends with benefits — someone to turn to whenever they need a quick fix — but instead someone that shares _more_? Like beds and homes and confidences and lazy Sunday mornings?

_Is that even possible…?_

Steve doesn’t know. There aren't any ready answers for him either. Just soft lips caressing his in a way they haven't before - not in this place, not by this woman - and gentle palms soon running up and down his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders. The stormy waters within respond to it. Begin to calm, only to flare up in a different kind of passion: one that's patient, loving, _giving_.

As each caress becomes softer, gentler, their bodies sway to unsung music. Step back. Twirl around. Cling. Steve can hardly believe it's happening, but can also feel the tension leave him, leave her. Replaced instead by an electric hum that's steady and encompassing; that guides them through the unfamiliar yet rousing dance.

Tentatively, she runs her fingers through his hair, plays with the shorter ones on his neck; all the while nudging his lower lip between hers, nuzzling it. He mirrors her, hands exploring places rarely attended in this way before. Gently rubbing circles into her shoulders, her neck, her spine, her upper arms. Taking his time. Feeling the knots begin to ease; feeling the muscles soften under the two layers of clothes she still wore. She sighs at this. Contentedly. Enticingly.

When she runs her tongue lazily across his lower lip, he gives her access. Energy flares up beneath his skin in response; a slumbering fire recalling similar moments, but more heated and more frantic. As blood begins to pound and his chest aches with heavier breaths, he struggles to keep the slow pace. Struggles to remember that this is different, that _they're_ different, and cannot help but run one hand down the length of her spine, down to her round cheek, and press her gently towards his hardened groin before letting go.

She gasps into his mouth. A familiar sound that threatens to undo it all. Not just for him, but for her too. The hand resting at the back of his neck grips more tightly, her tongue hardens slightly, and every motion speeds up just enough that both of his hands travel down to cup her soft, round bottom, holding her while his groin rubs against hers. Sweat breaks out on his skin and it feels as if his head is quickly coming to a boil.

With difficulty, he pulls back. Creates a bit of room, a bit of air. Just enough that their eyes can lock in the dimness. Just enough that their warm breaths can impact on visible skin.

The fear's still there, but muted. Clouded behind something else - something he hasn't allowed himself to see. Something that can break him as easily as a bullet. Something that makes him brush away those locks of hair again, thumb running across her cheekbone, gentle motion on soft skin, and feel his heart constrict in a way he'd thought it never would again. Like it's too much. Like it's drowning.

Slower, gentler, he kisses her again. No tongue. Just that sense of comfort, of _connection -_ and then he pulls back. Lets his hand fall down to hers, lets his fingers entwine with hers, lets it _connect_ , and then - heart pounding in his aching chest - pulls her gently after him.

The walk up to his bedroom is the longest he's undergone for a while. Cold air press in on him - on _them_ \- as they cross the open first floor, the enclosed staircase, and down the narrow hallway to his bedroom door. But all the while, his hand's gripping hers and she's gripping his in return - steady, safe - and it's almost too much. Almost too confusing. After all, he's a pathetic wretch and he doesn't really believe he deserves this.

But she doesn't let go, no matter how tentative she looks as they cross the threshold into his bedroom; no matter how frightened. It's as if she's magnetically sealed to his hand; the only link holding her back from a complete retreat.

Again, the sight makes him pause, and he feels uncertain as his roughened palm cup her cheek…but only for a moment. Only until her eyes flutter close and she leans into the touch - leans into _him -_ with her lips parted and warm upon the heel of his palm.

When she drops a kiss on the inside of his wrist, he feels that constriction in his chest again. Feels the warmth spread throughout his body. And, involuntarily, his eyes close too; shrouds his world in darkness, grounded only by the peripheral touch upon his hand, by the kisses pressed across his thumb and knuckles, by the delicate fingers circling around his wrist.

Love. That word echoes in his mind again. Is this love? Or just another part of lust? One that's slower, more patient, but nevertheless driven by something primal?

He still doesn't know. All he knows is how it feels when her hands trail up his arm, echoing his earlier actions by rubbing slow, steady circles into tightly-wrung muscles. How it feels to have her body pressed up against his, every limb seemingly able to knead knots out of his system. How it feels as the tension bleeds out of his body, submerging him in a cocoon of liquid warmth where it's hard to tell where his body ends and the world begins.

Blood throbbing beneath his skin, Steve opens his eyes and sees the wonder nuzzling her cheek into his chest. Domestically. Comfortingly. As if listening to his heartbeat and feeling _safe_ because of it.

His heart constricts. Swells. Heats. His hands move on their own. Slowly, gently. Up underneath her coat, tracing the shape of her rounded hips, her small waist, her buxom chest until they've reached her shoulders and start to push it off, leaving his hands on her shoulders. She stops to breathe at that, her arms falling down to her sides - letting him shed that one layer - before tipping her chin up so their gazes could meet again.

It nearly stops his heart completely. There's a weight in those glittering eyes he hasn't seen in years - a fragility - and _that word_ echoes in his mind again. Over and over until it's a buzz that can't be drowned out. That can only be ignored by pressing his lips to hers again. Gently. Patiently. But with an increasing undercurrent of energy taking hold of every action and reaction.

Before long, she's nestled close to him, arms encircled around her waist with hers around his neck - and both pulling at the edges of sweaters until they can find skin. They're both gasping at the touch amidst kisses; both nuzzling lips and tongues with a slight impatience struggling with its opposite.

In half a flurry that takes them from the middle of the room to the middle of his bed, other layers disappear. His sweater. Her sweater. Socks. Shoes. Both their trousers.

It's only when he's seated upon the edge of the bed, her seated in his lap, her legs wrapped around his waist, that her previous question flitters back into his clouded mind and he has to pull back from those delicious, devilish lips. She's breathing heavily when he does, chest heaving tantalisingly right beneath his chin.

"Tess…" His voice is strained, on the edge, confused, soft, and more. There's a question on his mind, but he doesn't know how to ask. Isn't sure if he remembers how.

As if to ground himself, he has to brush that hair out of her face once more; has to feel the silky tresses between his fingers; has to tuck them behind her ear in a remnant of a memory that's haunted his thoughts for years.

She mirrors him - softly - and studies his features. He doesn't realise he's scared to see what she sees until she smiles and his body relaxes under her touch. As she leans forward to press an open-mouthed kiss to his brow - reverently, gently - his hands trail down her back to her round bottom, and his aching chest forgets for a moment that he'd been shot earlier.

Silently, she answers his unspoken question. Kisses his features, rubs his tense muscles, all in ways he's never imagined possible since this all began - since _they_ began. And as she does, she begins to rock gently against his groin - slowly, steadily, patiently - with the fabric of their underwear creating extra friction.

Heat flares up in his chest at that. Gasps slip past his lips. Fingers dig into her flushed, sweat-covered skin, slipping underneath silky underwear, whilst his head lowers to rest upon her shoulder, hot air expelled upon her skin. Instinct takes him to her carotid artery, a racing pulse beneath his nose and lips, and he can feel her arms tighten familiarly when he sucks the spot. Only difference from before is that he's taking his time now, is patient now. The effect is the same. The touches are the same.

Slowly, one hand's trailing up her spine, vertebrae by vertebrae, until it finds the clasp of her bra and unhooks it. He doesn't do anything else yet. Instead, he rubs circles between her shoulder blades and at the top of her crack where he knows she's weak. Listens to her small hitches and feels a tightening in his groin; starts meeting her slow thrusts with little motions of his own. Just enough to start sending sparks through both their systems; just enough to feel her skin flush and coat with renewed sweat.

Then he moves his lips downwards. Kisses along her collarbone. Presses her body momentarily tighter to his. Lets go. Breathes. Then tip her backwards so her chest's on line with his face. Uses his nose to loosen the cups from her breasts and nudge the bra aside until he's finally got one of those hard, pert nipples in his mouth. The first solid sound escapes her uvula at that and her legs tighten around his waist.

He can't help but smile at that. The pace might be different, the _purpose_ might be different, but the rest weren't. Not really. And somehow, it emboldens him, strengthens him, pushes him, dispelling his uncertainty. He runs his tongue around the nipple, flattens against it, sucks it, and teases it whilst Tessa shifts with increasing impatience in his lap. Then he shifts to the other, repeating the gesture while one hand trails beneath her panties and her bottom until his fingertips can tease the wet heat pressed against his groin.

When she moans, his length hardens even more and his control almost falters. But like so many times before, he pushes through. Clings to every thin thread of restraint left in his arsenal, no matter how much her moans, her hitches, her motions want to ensnare him into a cascade of actions and sensations whose only goal will be ending it all too soon.

But even he has his limits, and _that word_ and _that question_ echo in his mind like a broken record until he's forced to let go with a wet pop. She's dazed when he pulls her back into eye level, her arms tight around his neck. It's a sight he's seen before - so many times - but that's not what he wants this time. Not what _she_ wants this time either.

So, with effort, he rolls them over and urges her higher upon the mattress. Then, once she's spread across the covers - tantalising, _beautiful_ \- he pulls her panties down. Pulls her bra away. Nuzzles the hot skin beneath. Scatters kisses everywhere. Feels as if he's shed another layer, but that another remains. A thicker one.

For a moment, it reminds him of what they'd done in the car. What _he'd_ done. And his chest constricts hard at the thought.

Gently, hesitantly, he pushes her legs up and apart, unveiling what he's both seen and hasn't seen so many times before. But for a moment, he can't do anything but stare. For a moment, he's frozen…until her voice breaks the silence.

"Steve…"

That gaze again. The touch of fear. The touch of uncertainty. The touch of fragility. It resonates and connects to something within, something deep and forgotten, and before he knows it, he's got his thumbs rubbing along the edges of her folds. But this time, his gaze is locked with hers; his breath is in tune with hers; his body's thrumming alongside hers. Air's pressing in on him - on _them_ \- but he hardly notices. The world's diminishing; is narrowing to _this,_ _here_ , _them_. To the sensations coursing through his body. To the heat around his hands. To the wetness around his fingers.

Gently, he's rubbing circles around her clit. Small, patient rolls that has her squirming; that has her almost breaking the trance of their locked gazes. When he slips a finger through her wet, glistening folds and into her core, her eyes nearly roll backwards. He's surprised to find himself almost moaning at the same time as her when he adds a second. Blood's pounding in his ears, his arteries, his chest, and the air's slowly being squeezed out of his pained lungs.

When she can finally no longer hold his gaze, he leans down and relieves his finger on her clit. Closes his eyes. Runs his tongue around the bud, then slowly up and down on it and next to it, using her moans and squirms for guidance. All the while, he's slowly pumping two fingers, then three, into her core, crooking them, stoking the spongy, ribbed spot within that has her moans increase in strength.

"No… No…" She squirms as if to get away from him. It's not unusual. She's done it before when the sensations seem to become too much. But all of a sudden, she's gripping his head and stopping him.

Confused, Steve looks up, sees her flushed cheeks and clouded gaze, and feels an irrational sliver of panic.

Rather than explain, she gets him to sit back up and then tugs at his boxers. So used to her directions, he complies and shifts to one side, all the while glancing at her in increasing uncertainty. When she notices, she bites her lip and casts her eyes down momentarily, almost shyly. It's such a sudden shift that he's stunned.

"Not like that," Tessa says lowly, hushed, with a hesitant palm upon his chest. Fingers teasing a few stray hairs on his sternum, she looks up beneath hooded eyes. "I want you." 

Steve’s half forced to shake his head again. Not sure he's really heard her right. After all, it's never been said before. Always been implied in a certain sense. And yet…suddenly, the full weight of those words bear down on him…and knocks the wind out of him.

She wants _him_. Not just a body in the night. Not just—

_Will you make love with me?_

Steve can hardly breathe. Can hardly question her. Instead, his chest aching, he moves over Tessa as she lowers to the mattress once more, and then positions himself between her legs. Meets her gaze again. Senses her trembling. Surprised he's trembling too.

When he hesitates, she cups his cheeks. Stares deeply into his eyes. Shows glimpses of something he's never allowed himself to see…

Then he sinks home, and for once it truly feels that way. It both scares him and doesn’t, because he’s been burnt before and—

Tessa’s hands brings him down. Brings him closer. He realises he’s been somewhere else all along. Not here. Not in the moment. ...and that’s what making love is.

His thrusts are slow. Measured. Connected. All the while locked with her gaze. With her hands. With her body. He teases her clit now and then, but gently. Patiently. In time with his thrusts. She’s warm and wet and soft - and he doesn’t really know how long he’ll last. Not like this. Not with those beautiful blue eyes on him. Not with that weight in her look, that focus - as if he’s all she can see and she’s all he can see.

When he senses her coiled tension, he struggles to keep it slow. Tries to delve deeper instead, to find her centre, her being. The final layer. It’s thinning now. He can see more than glimpses. The warmth. The vulnerability. The trust. The love...

When he sees it, he can no longer hold back. She’s slick and wet and soft and he’s hard and aching and growing impatient. He presses his thumb more firmly on her clit, sees the expression on her face change, hears her hitching start at the back of her throat, and rolls his hips deep - hitting the back. Rolling it around. Massaging her insides.

Finally, she crumbles. Mouth open as if in shock, eyes rolling back in her head, followed by a spill of cries and wetness and jerks as she squeezes him from within. It hastens his pace. Makes him lose his rhythm. Sends him plunging into the deep end with a groan and a squeeze of his eyes.

It’s different, but a good different. Collapsing on top of her chest, he’s spent. Not just physically, but mentally too. She seems the same. They do not speak for a long while. When words finally find them, she’s the first to speak.

“Thank you.”

He stares up at her, tenses a little, suddenly uncertain if this has been another ploy...but she’s never thanked him before. She’s never looked at him like she does now either, or snuggled against him like she does now. It’s different. A good different.

But he also wants to — _needs_ to — know. “Tess... what are we doing?”

Her eyes glitter with unshed tears, her lower lip trembling in a hesitant smile. “I’m falling in love... I have for a while… A long while.”

It’s not what he’d expected. He’d still expected rejection. Friends with benefits and everything that'd entail. But _this_ … This sends a warm flush throughout his body. A gentle one, an encompassing one. One that’s threatening to lift him sheer off the ground like some clichéd idiom about clouds.

“I’ve been scared to tell you in case... well…” Tessa bites her lip, casts her eyes down. Seems to shrink away beneath his gaze, make herself small — as if to protect herself in case he doesn’t feel the same. In case he’ll end this — _them_ — for good.

It almost makes Steve smile. She truly is oblivious...just like him.

“I’m in love with you, Tess.” His voice is soft, hushed, and his fingers trail across warm, flushed skin as if they could somehow convey that too. As if they could show her that even _after,_ he doesn’t want to stop. Doesn’t want to leave. Doesn’t want _her_ to leave, either. “So much that it hurts. Have for a while.”

Her smile wavers and drops, her hand cupping his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t—”

“No, I am. I’ve done this all backwards.” She shakes her head, smiling almost brokenly. “I should’ve told you how I felt from the start. I never wanted to hurt you.”

He cannot deny that he hasn’t been, so he says nothing. But he doesn’t stop his caresses, either. Not when they’ve come this far. Not when there’s finally a _chance_ —

“Would you like to go on a date sometime?” She sounds so shy and scared that he can’t help smiling.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, fingers now brushing across her cheek and into her wild mess of a hairdo. Pushing back those stray locks of hair so he can see her fully, see her clearly. Then his smile turns into a grin. “I’d love that.”

At that, she grins too and seems to expand with air and energy both, arms wrapping themselves around his neck.

Steve sinks into the hug, laughing, and he can’t help wonder if this is what love’s really supposed to feel like: warm, relieved, _happy_.

If it is, then he can grow drunk with it. For all eternity.

**FIN**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, apparently I had it in me to write more than 9000 words worth of NSFW material in one single story. Now I wonder if I should find some dark, dank corner somewhere and hide in mortification.


End file.
